


The Ones Left Behind

by AlphaAquilae



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Coping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Binary Drifter, Post-Canon, Spoilers, non-binary Guardian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-29 00:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaAquilae/pseuds/AlphaAquilae
Summary: --Ending Spoilers for Hyper Light Drifter!--Lately, you’ve come to understand that no matter how much you prefer to isolate yourself, there will always be someone wondering whether you’re still alive. And even though that’s not really your problem, it’s rude to keep them in the dark. To your discomfort, you’ve grown restless about it, so much that you can no longer ignore it.---In which Alt reunites with an old friend in an attempt to find closure.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	The Ones Left Behind

Central is more alive than ever before. The town’s population has tripled thanks to the refugees that have been pouring in from north, east, and south, bringing children, families, and entire cultures. The dishevelled city is struggling with this torrent of newcomers, though it does so with open arms. The residents have begun rebuilding previously abandoned structures, and the homeless are more than eager to help the effort. Slowly but surely, the town is undergoing a long-awaited metamorphosis.

And yet, some things do not change. You, for instance. You still live at the dojo, helping the Swordmaster there when you aren’t busy prowling the outskirts of the city. Though the untamed wilds have grown calmer with each visit, you couldn’t convince yourself to reduce your arsenal even by a single weapon. This peace is unprecedented, but only fools believe it’ll last.

Lately, you’ve come to understand that no matter how much you prefer to isolate yourself, there will always be someone wondering whether you’re still alive. And even though that’s not really your problem, it’s rude to keep them in the dark. To your discomfort, you’ve grown restless about it, so much that you can no longer ignore it.

So now you walk among this changed town, stiff and uncomfortable as if keeping a secret. Even though it’s a dreary day, and the town is misted by light rain, everything around you buzzes with activity. You do your best to not get in the way of the many builders hauling debris and construction materials throughout the city. From somewhere else, shopkeepers vigorously peddle their wares and hurl offers your way. You pay them no mind though; you already have what you need. You push past a flock of inattentive birdfolk, careful not to crush the half-concealed flowers beneath your cloak. Though the bouquet bears no thorns, you still feel in pain. The meaning clinging to the soft petals tears at old wounds, and even with the distraction of the town’s lively atmosphere, you can’t take your mind off of that ache.

Your pace doesn’t slow until you finally turn a corner, finding yourself standing in an abandoned courtyard. The town’s chatter is reduced to a muffle here, the best approximation of silence Central has to offer. Even though you feel safe from prying eyes here, a surge of anxiety constricts your lungs. At the far end of the courtyard rests a weathered house, your destination. It hasn’t changed much since the last time you were here, unlike the nearby teleportation pad overgrown with a few season’s worth of weeds. You remember it being in better condition.

But it quickly leaves your attention when you approach the front door, uncharacteristic hesitation in your step. You try to think about what you’re going to say to the person inside that house… if they’re even there. You haven’t spoken in moons, after all. Neither have you seen their face in town or heard any rumours. It’s as if they vanished as soon as the world stopped burning.

Maybe they’re gone, or simply away. Dead, even.

Your grasp on the bouquet tightens.

It offers no solace.

You stand in front of the door, suddenly feeling very small. You convince yourself to perform a short scan of its locking mechanism, which reports it… unsecured.

Great, you think. Someone could be inside.

Once again, you pray for words to finally come to you. That script you mulled over yesterday feels so sloppy now, teetering on the edge of disrespectful. Why did you believe it could make up for all the months of radio silence? Because false hope calms a troubled mind.

In the end, you simply settle for the doorbell.

You ping it.

Twice.

...and then once more.

Nothing stirs. The rain prattles on, and you become uncomfortably aware of the cold seeping underneath your skin. You stare at the entrance in front of you, expecting your canine ears to pick up the smallest sign of life. Still, nothing. The calming silence becomes a cosmic indifference to your efforts, and it is deafening. You contemplate turning tail, but the decision is ripped from your hands by the low mechanical hiss of an opening door. You look up. Before you stands a towering shadow, still and menacing.

This is so much worse than you could’ve anticipated.

“…Alt?” Guardian asks quietly.

The question makes the fur on your neck stand on end. Wide-eyed you stare up at Guardian, as if seeing a ghost. They still wear their old armor, helmet and all. Judging by its mint condition, you’d think no time has passed at all since you last met, if their tired voice didn’t betray that illusion. Words were supposed to come out of you by now, but you have no clue what kind of answer Guardian would want from you. The flowers stay hidden behind your back.

They hold your gaze, though you can’t discern their thoughts. Were they angry? Disappointed? Whatever it might be, after a few heartbeats, they nod to themselves and step aside. “Come on in, if you want to.”

In passing their threshold, you accept the offer. A homely warmth welcomes you into Guardian’s house, along with all the memories tied to this place. You used to steal a night’s rest here all the time.

The front door closes, and Guardian’s heavy steps trail behind you. Your ears fold back to listen.

“It’s been a while,” they say.

You swallow the lump in your throat. Not having to look them in the eye helps. “Where were you?”

“I could ask you the same.” Their tone subtly shifts towards blame. “The war may be over, but many people still suffer from its aftermath. Do you think the unarmed refugees made it to Central by luck?”

A pang of guilt strikes you. You’re not the most altruistic person around, and neither do you have the reputation to dispute that, but somehow, Guardian made you feel bad about it. Criticism isn’t what you came here for. “Maybe I wasn’t out there babysitting toads, but those maniacs in the Midnight Woods weren’t going to exterminate themselves, you know. I could have used your help out there.”

There’s a sudden scoff that makes you flinch. Guardian circles you, eyeing you through the slits of their helmet. “The raccoons never stepped foot outside of the Woods. Their General is long dead. Alt, murdering a scattered army wouldn't have done anything to help save the lives of starving and fleeing people. West had been a lost cause from the start.”

“That’s not why I—”

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” they ask, and you can’t tell whether it’s a diatribe or simple disappointment. “War has shaped us all, but you never seemed to mind what it did to you. I prayed every day your ruthless nature would fade over time.”

They approach you. An urge to defend yourself rises in your chest.

“Do you miss the war, is that why you refuse to move on? Did it give you a sense of purpose? Now that there is no one left to fight, were you hoping that slaughtering someone else’s enemies would do any good?”

“_Yes, __dammit!”_ you shout, unveiling your bouquet of flowers only to smash it on the ground in an explosion of petals. “Did you ever stop to think that _they_ are still out there, fighting for their life!?”

One, two steps, Guardian staggers backwards.

“What if they’re on their way back to us and some raccoon _bastard_ out for revenge finds them without a sword or the strength to raise it?”

You can’t stop yourself, now. A year’s worth of unspoken suffering breaks loose, tearing through every levy.

“What if they’re dragging themselves out of the Abyss, but some bot in the labs eviscerates them like any other pest? They can’t use the Cell as a crutch anymore, Guardian!”

“Alt—”

“You weren’t there when they played hero that one last time. I watched them go under without one look back. You weren’t there when every single afflicted idiot in town felt the sickness simply vanish, but then, once that elevator came back up, it was--” Your voice breaks in tandem with your composure, letting out a single sob. You push through the memory with the last of your strength. “--empty.”

Those flowers still rest in the middle of the room at the epicentre of a petal mess. Nothing breaches the uncomfortable silence that follows your tantrum, save for the rasp of your own breath. The regret of having come here grows more biting with each moment. Did anything besides an argument await you in this reunion? When you were invited into this home, was it only out of pity?

It dawns on you that Guardian left you behind a long time ago. For the sake of those who still suffered the consequences of war, they had to make that choice. You can’t blame them, even though you want to. Maybe they found another calling outside of this city. Maybe, without you or the Drifter, Central had nothing left for Guardian. After all, while the world set foot into a new era, you stayed exactly where the past left you.

You didn’t see the point in keeping up.

“I’m sorry,” Guardian says, giving you distance this time. It’s the kind of apology reserved for loss, and the sincerity behind it only rubs more salt into your wounds. You don’t want to say anything at first. You want this anger to keep hurting. You want someone to understand its depth. And it feels like Guardian is the only one left who can.

You glance past them, spotting what’s left of your peace offering. Can you blame Guardian for what they said? It wasn’t kind, but it was the sad truth. You wouldn’t have smashed the bouquet if it hadn’t hit close to home.

But they apologized. They made that first step to find common ground again. Isn’t it your turn to do the same?

“…Me too,” you press out at last. It’s not easy, but it feels right.

“Do you need anything?”

“A second, maybe.”

Guardian pauses, but you offer nothing else. You expect protest. They always want to help, even when you only need a little room to breathe and collect yourself. Being asked to stand back is something they grapple with, although that might have changed in the meantime. But tormenting them is the last thing on your mind.

“Make yourself at home, then,” they concede. “And welcome back.”

For a while, you are content to remain where you are. Guardian has disappeared into a different room to give you space, and you decide to sit down and listen to the rain play its song against the facade of the building. You rest your eyes for a moment. The ambience reminds you of all the times you’d come here to recuperate with the only person you could ever really tolerate. Guardian was always glad to have you. Sometimes you exchanged stories of your travels. Other times you would take apart old tech together, mulling over its age and use for nights on end. Then came the Drifter. You hated them at first, quietly resenting their invasion of your sanctuary. It took a lot of convincing from Guardian to even make you tolerate Drifter’s presence. But at least they didn’t talk.

Over time, their visits grew more frequent, to mixed results. Some days you would even strike up a conversation. Others, Guardian had to hold you back from doing something everyone would regret.

But in the end, it was always Drifter who left the house when you couldn’t stomach them any longer. To this day you don’t know where they sought shelter. You doubt anyone else in Central would have taken in a sick vagrant like them.

The Drifter and you never pretended to lead an affable coexistence. You don’t really deal in words like that. But they had always shown you that ounce of respect, even when you never asked for it. Or deserved it.

From around the corner, Guardian calls, offering to show you something. You quickly rise from your seat, figuring you’ve been alone with your thoughts for too long anyway.

The living room is cleaner than you expected. Scrap and old tech lie neatly organized in various containers, sorted by condition, age, type… You miss the heaps of papers and blueprints that used to cover every free surface within this place. Does Guardian even still work on reconstructing those machines they found on their journeys? You walk past a shelf stocked with medical supplies, ammo, and maintenance tools, all sealed.

This place is nothing like it used to be. Too neat. Not at all like a house someone actually lives in.

Two cups of something steaming hot rest on Guardian’s empty workstation, right next to a row of closets and shelves. Guardian is standing before an an open wardrobe, inspecting something. You grab one of the cups, uncaring of its content.

“If you still want to know,” they say, staring at a dozen vibrant cloaks. “I didn’t have the most selfless motives behind helping those people.”

You scoff, taking a seat upon the workbench. “Few people do.”

“To tell the truth, I was hoping they would turn up among the refugees.” Guardian pauses. From the corner of your eye, you noticed that their hands idly fiddle with one of the crumpled flowers. “And if not in person, then at least in rumors, or any other possible way.”

“…And?”

“Nothing, of course.” They run a hand over a deep-purple cloak, a garment granted only to those who withstood the gauntlet of ancients. “Some told of having seen them before Judgment’s destruction, but never after. For as long as I’ve known them, they’ve been so reclusive. Even though I suspected they would never willingly come to a stranger for help, I kept fooling myself into thinking that someone out there had met them, or found them, or…” They sigh, and the garment slips from their fingers. “It was little more than false hope to calm a troubled mind.”

You spot Guardian’s old backpack propped against a wall next to the closet. It hasn’t moved in a long time. Ever since they dragged an unconscious drifter into Central, if you had to guess.

“I don’t know, doesn’t sound unlikely to me. I remember a certain someone saving them from the Midnight Woods once,” you say, pointedly looking away from Guardian.

They let out a weary chuckle. “You know, I think they’ve never quite forgiven me for aiding them.”

“Yeah, that sounds a lot like them.”

The conversation trails off into an uneasy silence. It scratches at the paper-thin facade between remembrance and relapse. For a moment, you feel alone in your grief once again. You wonder whether Guardian feels the same. They hide themself well beneath their armor, its polished surface offering you nothing but your own reflection. And they remain as they are, staring into the wardrobe, looking for something between the colorful fabrics.

“Do you think it, too?” you ask, quietly feeling the question wrap around your throat.

“That they’re dead?”

Not even the cup’s warmth can keep the blood in your hands from turning to ice . “It’s kind of hard not to. Right?”

“We might never know what happened after all,” Guardian mumbles almost to themself. But then they look to you, and their blue eyes bear an adamant truth. “It is up to us to interpret this uncertainty, one way or another.”

“Even if it’s much more likely they’re—”

“Even then, can you be truly sure of it?”

You can’t. You’ve been walking a tightrope between hope and despair since the Drifter disappeared. But can you be sure Guardian isn’t using you to fortify a delusion they’re desperately clinging to? Does it matter?

“No,” you answer. “I can’t.”

Guardian steps towards the wardrobe, gently sliding the door shut. “Then you understand. Can you promise me something?”

The question startles you off the table, back on your own two feet.

“I’ll try. I can definitely do that.” You’d give them a yes if not for your poor track record.

Guardian’s hand slips into one of their belt pockets, emerging in a closed fist. They approach you, stretching their arm out. Twice do your eyes dart between them and their fist. Soon, their fingers uncurl, revealing a scrap of bright red fabric. An awfully familiar shade of bright red fabric.

“Do not give in, Alt.”

Gingerly, you take the scrap. You can barely smell anything on it. There’s no helping your doubt. “What if you’re wrong?”

“I think I’d rather be wrong all my life than give up hope.”

**Author's Note:**

> What's up, I'm not dead! Just super busy and putting more time and care into my writing. Hope you can feel the difference :D  
Feel free to leave a comment, I appreciate feedback on my work!
> 
> Huge thanks to Nym_P_Seudo for beta-reading this story! Go check out their wonderful work!!


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